


Show Me

by vivilove



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, But book canon, Developing Relationship, F/M, Light Angst, Post-Canon, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:42:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25560787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivilove/pseuds/vivilove
Summary: “Could you show me?”“I could but…” He hesitates, shaking his head to himself.She’s had a good bit of wine but she’s clearheaded enough to feel the rebuff of his hesitancy and his reluctance wounds her greatly. Perhaps he only likes it the one way. Perhaps her brazenness offends him. Perhaps he’ll be glad to get her with child at last so he can stop coming to her chambers by night.“Forget I said anything,” she gulps, losing her nerve and thinking she may ask him to leave her be tonight. She’s mortified by her fevered thoughts from earlier when he’d been walking her up to her chambers. Her small clothes are damp, her body betraying her need for him when he apparently is indifferent to it.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 69
Kudos: 353





	Show Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Norrlands](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Norrlands/gifts).



> I'm trying to finish a WIP but Norrlands had to go and get me inspired with [her latest manip](https://64.media.tumblr.com/29ef65ec3c63b55979249a1522a926d1/7ea6d791a57f1c02-ed/s1280x1920/ef2dcee03b7ece57602b6a2fe9362b2357755e66.jpg) and this _needed_ to be written :)

“Show me.”

“Show you? Sansa…”

“I want to know what they meant. Please, husband.”

His dark eyes blaze with something that she would almost call feral at that word. Is that the ale in him giving him that look? Was that the wine in her which made her do it? She never calls him husband. They’ve been married for nearly three moons but he’s always been Jon. Calling him husband is a first.

But then again, this is a first, too. She’s never asked for anything like this.

“Show me how I’m to…how a wife might…ride her husband,” she stammers, her face flushing all over again.

“You want to ride my, um…you want to do _that?_ With _me_ , Sansa?”

Who else would she do it with?! Gods, the man is terribly frustrating at times.

The wildling women are as free in their speech as their men. The ale and wine had been flowing freely all during the feast and their stories had grown coarser as the night had gone on. Sansa had listened politely at first as a sign of courtesy. However, it hadn’t been long until she’d been listening raptly, wanting to know all about this. She could tell they were talking about coupling but she’s never experienced this…well, she supposes it’s a position.

This aspect of marriage between the two of them is still something they’re working at. There’s affection for certain and she secretly nurses hopes that love might blossom. For herself, it’s already begun to.

She was admittedly a novice at the start. He was not but he’d not acted overly assured or demanding or even as if he expected anything at all from her in that regard until she’d recited her refrain about heirs and 'the good of the North’ on their wedding night and he’d obliged her, promising to be gentle and suggesting ways to make it less invasive and over more quickly.

At the time, she’d appreciated it but she’s not so sure she wants it to be over so quick anymore.

He’s careful with her, careful with her body and tender with her feelings since the day they stood at the Weirwood and became man and wife. Maybe he’s not _in_ love with her yet but she does not doubt he loves her. _In time, he may,_ she tells herself.

He comes and sits by her fire every night and they talk, taking pleasure in sharing their day even when they bicker here and there. It’s her favorite part of the day to be honest, that intimacy of sharing things like a married couple should.

Jon is not a man of many words but with her, surrounded by nothing but these four walls, he gradually opens himself up to her. She likes to pretend he might be opening his heart to her as well.

After the talking is done, he then asks if she’s inclined or not to try. That’s how they put it. They try. It’s supposed to be a babe they’re trying for but maybe it’s a real marriage they’re trying for, too. There’s been very few nights she’s said she was not inclined.

And the truth is, she’s coming to truly enjoy their relations but a lingering awkwardness remains. It’s not the great release, the overwhelming, flooding sensation of pleasure that she’s heard some girls whisper of.

Still, she no longer needs the oil he’d brought those first few times. He still carries it into her chambers but it remains corked now. She’s always ready for him. Perhaps he believes she’s preparing herself. She supposes she is though she doesn’t need any oil for that. She gets slick just remembering the way he’d deftly applied the oil those first times until a low and shamefully guttural moan had escaped her once and he’d bit his lip and asked if she was ready. She could hardly deny it at the time and since then, she’s been too embarrassed to ask him to apply the oil again.

There’s no longer much rustling as she waits on her back staring at the ceiling either as he doesn’t spend as much time stroking himself in preparation before he enters her. His breeches are often noticeably tented by the time she’s down to her shift with her hair brushed out after they’ve talked, he’s asked for her consent and she’s given it.

But their lovemaking remains strangely chaste if one can call lovemaking such a word. Her shift is pushed up to her hips as she lies back on the edge of her bed. Jon’s breeches are still on when he stands between her thighs. His face grows flushed as he rocks into her but her hands grip the bedding as his stay firmly in one place on her hips.

They do not touch each other beyond where they must.

They do not kiss during the act. It would be difficult given the position.

She’s starting to think she should like it if they did though.

The closest they come to embracing during it is her stocking-clad legs wrapped around him but that’s only because she doesn’t know what else to do with them.

When he shudders with his release, he sometimes gives one hip a squeeze and asks if she needs anything. She always says no, casting her shift back down over her exposed womanhood while he laces himself back up. He then kisses her hand before departing for the night, wishing her a good rest.

But tonight, she’d thought to try something else…if only he will agree.

“Could you show me?”

“I could but…” He hesitates, shaking his head to himself.

She’s had a good bit of wine but she’s clearheaded enough to feel the rebuff of his hesitancy and his reluctance wounds her greatly. Perhaps he only likes it the one way. Perhaps her brazenness offends him. Perhaps he’ll be glad to get her with child at last so he can stop coming to her chambers by night.

“Forget I said anything,” she gulps, losing her nerve and thinking she may ask him to leave her be tonight. She’s mortified by her fevered thoughts from earlier when he’d been walking her up to her chambers. Her small clothes are damp, her body betraying her need for him when he apparently is indifferent to it.

She squeezes her eyes shut angrily and turns away. She will not cry in front of him.

“If you don’t mind, my lord, I think I’d rather…”

His hand is at her elbow, a light grasp but still strong enough to turn her. They are face to face. She could count his eyelashes if she wished to.

His voice is a rasp, a raw razor’s edge of emotion when he speaks again but which way does it cut? “Sansa, I could show you how it’s done but we would needs be closer, much closer than we normally are. We would face each other.”

“We face each other already,” she whispers, growing intoxicated by this closeness, by his scent and by the warmth of his callused hand on her bare skin.

“Aye, but you will be on top of me and I’ll hold you there as we…” He licks his lips and she realizes he is not indifferent to her at all. “Could you want that? With me?”

“I would not mind a little closeness,” she hears herself say, regretting the way her voice trembles. She longs for closeness, for the safety of his arms…and for his love.

He catches an errant tear with the pad of his thumb and his smile is coaxing, his eyes warm and loving when he says, “Nor would I, wife.”

Tonight, he shows her what it means for a wife to ride her husband.

Tonight, he shows her his heart even if he is a man of few words.

He says it will be easier without clothes in the way. “Though they can be left on,” he adds with a saucy grin that makes her laugh.

But when she goes to remove her stockings, that same feral look from earlier appears and he tells her to leave them on.

“Leave them on, husband?” she questions.

“Aye but I’ll have those legs wrapped around me all the same.” 

The feral look intensifies when he tugs her shift over her head. She should feel modest as Jon looks his fill of her for the first time but she doesn't. She definitely won't need the oil at all. She's eager to see him and he's soon removed every stitch of his clothes with no apparent modesty at all. 

He scoots back on the bed and guides her to straddle him, his instructions few but clear. "Like a horse," he explains and she's flushed and giggling like a silly girl. He doesn't seem to mind. 

"Do you lay there while I..." Does she bounce up and down on his member until he...gods, she's aroused at the thought but also unsure. 

"You could do that," he says gruffly before clearing his throat, "but I should like to hold you close."

"Close. Yes, let's do that." 

Her breasts are pillowed against his bare chest. His arms are holding her low around the waist as hers are wrapped around his shoulders. His face is even with her throat, his beard lightly scraping and tickling as he kisses his way up to her chin, along her jaw and then finding his way to her lips. One hand comes free from her waist and traces along the silk covering her knee and up her thigh until he reaches her skin.

"So soft."

"My stockings?"

"No, wife. You."

He fingers her, testing her readiness. She writhes above him when his lips capture a nipple. "Jon..."

"Go ahead. Ride me." 

She sinks down his length with a hiss and he worries it hurts. It doesn’t. It’s just a new stretch. He’s filling her. “You’re deeper,” she manages to murmur, ready to hide her face in the crook of his neck.

“That I am. I love it but do you, wife?”

She reflects as her body adjusts. “I think I do.”

And once he starts to move and encourages her to do the same, to meet his thrusts, she’s sure of it.

“You liked it?” he asks later as the fire burns low and their sweaty bodies are covered with their furs for the night. 

No kiss on the hand and wishes of sweet dreams tonight. Well, perhaps he'll still give her that but he will stay where he is. She’s nestled up against him, tired but sated, sleepy but delighted. Those girls weren’t wrong at all about that great release, that overwhelming, flooding sensation. She just needed something a little different than before.

“I loved it. Did you?”

His fingers drift through her tousled hair as she lightly toys with the sprinkling of hair on his chest. “I loved it, too...but I love you more,” he adds, kissing her hand.

Her heart sighs when she tells him she feels the same. 

Before they drift off, he gives her a teasing look and says, "Let me know if there's anything else you'd like for me to show you, wife."

Oh, she will. 


End file.
